Chapter 11
They left the tea shop together and wandered without any particular destination, allowing the afternoon crowds to carry them along Bond Street.
Elegant ladies drifted from one fashionable shop to the next while gentlemen paused to exchange greetings beneath striped awnings, and more than once William noticed curious glances lingering a little longer than courtesy required.
Their ruse was already working.
Beside him, Rosalind walked with a composure that would have convinced anyone she had spent years accepting the attentions of devoted gentlemen. Only the lingering color in her cheeks betrayed the awkward collision they had shared inside the tea shop moments before.
William smiled to himself.
It had been such a ridiculous moment. They had both remembered their roles as courting couple and forgotten the far more practical matter of watching where they were going.
Yet when she had looked up at him from only inches away, her green eyes wide with surprise and amusement, he had found himself forgetting, however briefly, that none of this was real.
For one thoroughly impractical moment, he had wanted to tell her she looked beautiful when she laughed.
Fortunately, he had possessed enough sense to remain silent.
Their courtship was pretend. He repeated the reminder to himself with considerably more determination than seemed necessary before turning his thoughts back toward the investigation.
“I've been thinking about the auction house,” he said.
Rosalind looked up at him immediately, the warmth of the previous few minutes giving way to concern. “So have I.”
“The clerk's disappearance troubles me.” He frowned, watching a carriage roll past before continuing.
“I intend to make further inquiries myself, though I confess I'd also like to hear Algernon's thoughts once he returns from Aldermere. He has an unfortunate habit of noticing details the rest of us overlook.”
“I think that would be wise.”
They continued walking for another few moments in thoughtful silence before another idea occurred to him. “There is something else I'd like to ask.”
She glanced toward him.
“Tonight, there is a rather exclusive ball held each summer. Attendance is by invitation only.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “London never seems to tire of inventing reasons to dance.”
“It does not.”
“And I presume this invitation concerns our arrangement?”
“It does.” He smiled back. “If we are to convince society our courtship is genuine, we cannot limit ourselves to promenades and afternoon tea. We ought to be seen together where people expect courting couples to appear.”
She considered that for only a moment before nodding. “You are right.”
Her agreement came so readily that he found himself absurdly pleased.
“Besides,” he continued, “your attendance would accomplish something rather important.”
“Which is?”
“Half the debutantes in London will be there. If they see you upon my arm instead of whispering behind fans, your scandal becomes far less interesting than our courtship.”
She laughed softly. “An entire ballroom devoted to gossiping about us.”
“Precisely.”
“Very well.” She smiled. “I will come. I shall simply have to persuade someone to chaperone me on rather short notice.”
“I suspect finding a chaperone will prove easier than obtaining an invitation.”
“One can hope.”
By then they had reached her waiting carriage.
William reluctantly slowed. “I suppose I ought to let you return home.”
“And I suppose I ought to begin preparing for a ball I knew nothing about an hour ago.”
He laughed.
Taking her gloved hand, he bowed and brushed the lightest kiss across her knuckles. The gesture ought to have felt entirely theatrical, another performance for the benefit of passing strangers.
Somehow it did not.
As he straightened, another thought occurred to him. “One word of warning.”
She regarded him expectantly.
“If Miss Hartwell does not accompany you, Gabriel will hold you personally responsible.”
Rosalind laughed. “I fear Mr. Frost shall be disappointed. Isabella already has plans.”
“Indeed?”
“A gathering on Baker Street devoted to literature and painting.” Amusement sparkled in her eyes. “She would sooner miss Christmas than that particular evening.”
William chuckled. “Poor Gabriel.”
“Very.”
She climbed into the carriage before looking back down at him. “Until tonight, Lord William.”
He watched the carriage disappear into the afternoon traffic before turning toward home himself.
It occurred to him, not for the first time that day, that pretending to court Rosalind Carlisle was becoming alarmingly easy.
He suspected that was precisely what made it dangerous.
***
By the time William reached Gabriel's townhouse, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent toward the rooftops of Mayfair, bathing the quiet street in warm amber light. He had every intention of returning directly home after parting from Rosalind.
Instead, almost without thinking, he had turned toward Gabriel's residence.
If anyone could be trusted with the details of his thoroughly unconventional courtship, it was Gabriel.
The footman admitted him immediately and directed him toward the library.
William found his friend exactly where he expected to: stretched comfortably across a leather sofa with a novel open in one hand and a neglected glass of sherry resting upon the table beside him.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows, warming shelves crowded with books that Gabriel had accumulated over the years, many of them wedged wherever space permitted.
Gabriel looked up as William entered.
William had scarcely removed his gloves before Gabriel asked, “Did you find out anything about Miss Hartwell?”
William laughed. “Good afternoon to you as well.”
Gabriel waved the greeting aside. “What did you learn about Isabella?”
William shook his head, unable to suppress a smile. “You're becoming alarmingly predictable.”
“Yes, yes. Get on with it.”
William settled into the chair opposite him. “She attends a literary and painting gathering on Baker Street this evening.”
Gabriel sat up so quickly the book slid forgotten onto the carpet. “A gathering?”
“One devoted to literature and painting.”
A slow smile spread across Gabriel's face. “Well.”
William recognized that expression immediately. “I don't care for that look.”
“You never do.”
“You are planning something.”
“I am considering my options.”
“You have none.”
Gabriel ignored him completely. “If Miss Hartwell intends to spend the evening discussing literature, I believe I am already admirably qualified.”
“For once, I cannot argue.”
“Excellent.”
William folded his arms. “And painting?”
Gabriel considered the matter with complete seriousness. “I shall admire whatever everyone else admires.”
“That sounds hazardous.”
“It is called adaptability.”
William laughed. “You'll require more than adaptability.”
“I require only an invitation.”
“You do not possess one.”
“A regrettable detail.”
“A rather significant one.”
Gabriel dismissed the objection with a careless wave of his hand. “That is tonight's problem.”
William leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I almost pity Miss Hartwell.”
“You will pity me considerably more if she refuses to speak to me.”
William suspected that outcome remained the more likely, though he kept the observation to himself.
After another few minutes of increasingly implausible plans for infiltrating an invitation-only gathering, William finally rose to leave, abandoning Gabriel to whatever scheme presently occupied his imagination.
William returned to Aldermere House to find the entrance hall unexpectedly busy. Footmen crossed the marble floor carrying traveling trunks while the butler supervised the loading of a waiting carriage.
He had scarcely stepped inside before he caught sight of his brother descending the staircase, already dressed for the road. “I thought you were not leaving until tomorrow.”
“Neither did I,” the duke replied. “Circumstances changed.”
Before William could ask what circumstances, the duchess appeared behind him, dressed for travel as well.
William blinked. “You are accompanying him?”
“A few days in the country sounded preferable to another week in London,” she answered pleasantly.
It was not the explanation William had expected, though he could hardly object.
“How long will you be gone?” he asked, turning back to his brother.
The duke reached for his gloves. “I'm not entirely certain.”
William frowned. “I was hoping we'd have an opportunity to compare notes about the investigation before you left.”
“So was I.” His brother adjusted one cuff before looking toward the open front door, where the coachman was already waiting. “We will speak when I return.”
“Algernon—”
But the duke had already stepped outside.
The duchess offered William an apologetic smile before following her husband into the carriage.
Moments later, the horses pulled away from the curb, leaving William alone in the suddenly quiet entrance hall.
He watched the carriage disappear down the street, a faint crease settling between his brows.
His brother had answered every question.
And yet, William felt no better informed than before.
***
The carriage rolled to a stop before the brightly lit townhouse, where a line of elegant equipages already stretched halfway around the square.
Footmen hurried between polished carriages, announcing guests as ladies in shimmering silk ascended the broad stone steps, their laughter drifting into the warm summer evening.
As William stepped onto the pavement, his thoughts lingered stubbornly upon his brother's abrupt departure.
It was unlike Algernon to alter his plans without explanation. More unlike him still to evade perfectly reasonable questions.
William had the distinct impression his brother had wished to leave before any further conversation could take place. He only hoped the estate business truly proved as ordinary as Algernon claimed.
Pushing the thought aside, William surrendered his invitation to the butler and entered the house.
Music greeted him almost immediately.
The ballroom glowed beneath dozens of crystal chandeliers, their candlelight dancing across polished marble floors and gilded walls.
Ladies in every imaginable shade of silk drifted through the room like brightly colored blossoms while gentlemen clustered in small groups, their conversations rising and falling beneath the steady rhythm of the orchestra.
William found himself searching the crowd before he had consciously decided to do so.
He frowned.
Rosalind had accepted his invitation readily enough, but securing an appropriate chaperone at such short notice had been another matter entirely.
Suppose she had been unable to come. The thought disappointed him more than it ought.
His gaze swept slowly across the ballroom once more.
Then he saw her.
She stood beside Lady Eastmere near one of the tall windows, the rich purple of her gown setting her apart from every lady surrounding her.
Fresh flowers had been woven delicately through the loose curls that fell over her shoulders, and for one thoroughly unreasonable moment William simply forgot to breathe.
She was beautiful. The realization struck with such unexpected force that it took him a moment to notice she was not alone.
A young gentleman stood before her, bowing with excessive flourish as he retrieved the fan she had apparently dropped. He knelt upon one knee, offering it back as though returning Excalibur to its rightful queen.
Rosalind accepted the fan with a gracious smile, thanking the gentleman with the same quiet warmth she seemed to offer everyone.
The gentleman, unfortunately, appeared determined to mistake simple politeness for encouragement.
William felt an unexpected tightening somewhere beneath his ribs.
The reaction was so immediate, and so entirely unreasonable, that he almost laughed at himself.
This was precisely what they wanted.
The more attention Rosalind attracted, the more thoroughly London would forget itself in speculation over her supposed courtship.
Gentlemen noticing her ought to have pleased him.
It meant society had begun looking at Lady Rosalind Carlisle again instead of merely whispering about the missing Earl of Eastmere.
So why, then, did he find himself hoping the fellow would return her fan and be about his business?
William sighed inwardly.
This would never do.
Their courtship was a practical arrangement, nothing more. He had no claim upon Rosalind's attention beyond the one they had invented together, and certainly no cause to resent another gentleman for admiring a beautiful woman.
Yet the uncomfortable pinch beneath his ribs stubbornly refused to disappear.
Squaring his shoulders, William crossed the ballroom toward her, reminding himself with every step that he was merely going to greet the lady he had agreed to pretend to court.
Nothing more.
At least that was what he intended to keep believing.